Written and directed by: Riley Stearns
You are probably familiar with at least one character who is a “fighter that doesn’t like fighting.” This trope is embodied by figures including Captain America, Mufasa and the Jedi knights. Perhaps the most blatant example is Mr. Miyagi from The Karate Kid. Miyagi denounces a group of bullies for using karate to beat up his student, explaining that karate was developed for self-defence.
Miyagi and other karate senseis emphasize that theirs is a noble art; it is this nobility that The Art of Self Defence appears to explore.
The Art of Self Defence does not open with reference to karate, however. Instead, the film calls in viewers by introducing its engaging protagonist Casey (Jessie Eisenberg), a soft-spoken accountant who lives with his dachshund. Casey’s geekiness is somewhat cartoonish, a personality trait that amusingly interrupts the realism of his story. The very fact that this figure is set up to be the protagonist of a martial arts movie is itself, a bit of a punchline.
Casey’s stilted persona is not unique in The Art of Self Defence’s script. He is joined first by a trio of overly-mundane bro-ish co-workers, an ambitious but personable classmate (David Zellner), a surprisingly likeable gun salesman (Davey Johnson), and of course Casey’s karate sensei (Alessandro Nivola). Together these figures create an atmosphere that comedically resembles What We do in the Shadows. But while the former film revels in being a consistently understated vampire comedy, The Art of Self Defence has a script that doesn’t stay still.
Generally speaking, when I like a movie it has one of two qualities (if not both): subtlety and escalation. The Art of Self Defence lacks the former trait, but it capitalizes on the latter. Escalation-based movies often stand out as particular favorites of mine. Physiologically they rile me up, and cognitively they impress me with their tendency to cleverly build upon details, big and small, from their stories’ beginnings.
Escalation worked particularly well as a storytelling tactic in 2018’s Sorry to Bother You. That’s because the idea behind that film is more or less “how absurd does capitalism have to get for people to notice and do something?” As someone engaging in film criticism I was admittedly guilty of overthinking when watching The Art of Self Defence. That said, while I thoroughly enjoyed its escalation, I couldn’t entirely free myself from the thought that in the case of the film, the over-the-topness had nothing to do with (and perhaps came at the expense of) the film’s potential messaging.
To state what will become quickly obvious to anyone who sees The Art of Self Defence, the film explores the theme of macho-masculinity. As I have already noted, karate (unlike say boxing, football, etc) is a provocative choice of sport through which to explore this issue. Idealized karate practitioners, after all, are not violence-loving bros but gentle bonsai trimmers like Mr. Miyagi. That said, an anti-macho critique of karate practitioners and other anti-fighting fighters is certainly possible. The Jedi knights of the world may say and sincerely believe that theirs is an art of self defence. But can a culture of self-defence really flourish in medium that presumably draw people in because they are awed by the coolness of having fighting-powers? After all, even the karate kid ends with its protagonist participating in a fighting tournament.
Furthermore, one can argue that karate is also implicitly reactionary due to its emphasis on hierarchy. While I may be relying too much on one mildly-traumatic memory here, 6-year old me felt deeply excluded from karate culture, when he briefly took classes and was told my the instructor that he was the only student not ready for a belt by the time the class came to an end. It so happens that The Art of Defence does critique karate for its hierarchal belt system(and in quite the comedic fashion), but due to the film’s Tarantinoesque stylization, it does not apply this critique consistently. Ideologically the film recognizes the harm that can come from the celebration of power inequality, but it also understands that acts of condescension can make for great deadpan humor.
The real messaging problem, however, doesn’t come from the film’s handling of hierarchy, but from its handling of violence and masculinity. In most cases this violence-and-masculinity link is spelled out and exaggerated (eg in a scene where Casey’s co-workers list their favorite sex positions). This over-the-topness is entertaining and produces a few great one liners, but it deprives the film of thematic uniqueness.
At one moment in the film’s runtime, Casey announces his intent to quit karate. His coach, with Miyagi like grace, responds by telling Casey to keep his chin up and assuring him that no matter what path he goes on his karate experience will never leave him. This moment where a parallel between the Sensei and Mr. Miyagi shows up is just that, however: a moment.
In short, The Art of Self Defence is a masterful piece of storytelling, but if it aspired to be a provocative anti-sequel to The Karate Kid it fell a bit short. While the film undoubtedly has good politics, at times it felt like all it was saying was the obvious: that toxic masculinity is bad. Is that all the film aspires to say politically? Does the character of Anna (Imogen Poots) show the good and the bad of liberal (elite-oriented) feminism as she appears to, or is this ambivalence not what the film was going for? And does this film teach, as it proclaims, “the art of self defence,” or much like its sensei is it still only offering offence in disguise?
The Last Jedi starts like all other Star Wars films: with a text crawl and the theme music. Then it gets chaotic, as intergalactic vessels commanded by various rebels and imperial figures take each other on. These early moments of the film concerned me. Was I was about to watch an ambitious but generic action movie: a tale of soldiers more so than characters?
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